"The murder of the president," Illya said, "the stealing of the gold bullion, the burning of that laboratory, and the theft of the fuse plans, and-"

"And the killing of the deputy chief of security," Solo finished.

"Very good, gentlemen, I see all your training is not lost," Waverly said. "Yes, it is quire clear that in each of those cases random accident appears rather unlikely. Someone had much to gain in each instance. One such accident, yes. Two? Possible. Three, not really possible. Four, never."

"Mathematically all but impossible," Illya said. "Given the exact similarity of conditions-all teenage riots."

"What about the Russians?" Solo said. "Each of those cases was in the West except the deputy chief of security, and he was a Pole. It could have been some sort of purge."

Illya smiled. "Always ready to malign my poor countrymen."

"Your ex-countrymen," Solo pointed out.

Waverly cleared his throat, tapped out his never lighted pipe.

"Let me say it is not the Russians. Our friends at the Kremlin are not cooperative with information, as you well know, but in this case we have reliable data to show that other such incidents have occurred in the Soviet. They are, I believe, quite as worried as the West.

"THRUSH?" Solo said.

"I think we can safely detect their fine hand in this, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Especially since they appear to be out to stop us before we start. A sign, I believe, of the high priority nature of whatever scheme they have."

Waverly searched his tweed jacket for his tobacco pouch again.

"In addition, our Section-I representative for Africa, with whom I had the pleasure of speaking this morning, has some other indications. It appears that the man who will step into the dead president's shoes out there may well be a THRUSH man. That would make the new country another THRUSH satrapy, I fear. In any event, each case would benefit THRUSH in its work enormously."

There was a silence in the office. They were all thinking of the work of THRUSH. That supra-national organization, almost a nation of its own, had only one work—to dominate the world, to have the only power. To this end THRUSH had already invaded the body politic of the earth like some insidious virus. Everywhere on earth, high places and low, there were men who seemed to belong to various nations, but who, in fact belonged to only one nation—THRUSH

These men lived complete double lives, whether they were taxi-drivers of cabinet ministers. Their rank in the visible world did not necessarily coincide with their THRUSH ranking. A taxi-driver in New York could be a leader of THRUSH; a cabinet minister in Peru could be no more than a common soldier. At the head of THRUSH was the council—great men all, in both worlds: soldiers, industrialists, politicians, scientists.

Illya Kuryakin leaned forward across the circular table, his dark eyes fixed on Waverly. "I can understand the cases where THRUSH has something to gain. But what about the other incidents? Were they mistakes of THRUSH?"

"Possibly," Waverly agreed.

"Or a cover," Solo said. "Intended to hide the real incidents where they gained.

"Possibly," Waverly agreed again. The older man sucked on his unlighted pipe. "I think, gentlemen, that we are dealing with both mistakes and a cover, but not in the usual sense. There is something here that does not meet the eye. Teenagers have been rioting, running wild at times, for many years. It is a part of our modern world, it seems. But now we have a difference. Now we have what appears to be true madness, insanity. Some of it seems directed, some not. But in all cases, ultimate violence has ensued, and the young people, and others, have died—smiling! It is as if something had pushed the young people beyond the normal limits. We know they were not drugged in the normal sense, and despite much work we have discovered no agents provocateur. We are looking for something capable of turning great masses of young people into mindless monsters who kill, steal and perform planned atrocities apparently without direction! Something that works on great numbers, leaves no trace, and leads to single acts of definite method in some cases but not in all cases. That, gentlemen, is the key. Why does it work only in some cases? That is what we must know."

"Perhaps it is still experimental," Illya said. "That would explain why it doesn't work."

"That occurred to me," Waverly said. "And that is why we must move fast before it is perfected."

"How?" Solo said. "If there is no direction from outside, no agents, no visible contact with anyone, how can we trace it? You can't just go and question every member of a teenage mob!"

"Naturally not, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "In any case that has been tried. The young people seem to know nothing, those who have survived. All they can tell us is that they suddenly felt the urge to be violent. In most cases, those who live have no true recollection of just how violent they have been."

"Like the alkaloid drugs," Illya said quickly. "Aware of what they are doing, but unaware of the speed, the degree."

"Exactly," Waverly said. "Over and over again authorities have reported that the teenagers appear to think they merely knocked down a person they have actually trampled to death."

"But they do know they have been violent?" Solo said.

"Yes, Mr. Solo. They know," Waverly said. The older man tapped his pipe on the circular table. "There is one more detail. Is is, I believe, vital. Over the past six months the cases have tended to be prolonged. That is, the violence does not leave the young people as soon. Each time they appear to remain in their madness longer. We have no time to lose."

"But where do we start?" Solo demanded.

"In Kandaville, I think," Waverly said. "You see, we now have one clue, our only clue."

The older man turned back to the screen and pressed a button. Instantly the scene of the airfield at Kandaville appeared. It was the same as before. Bodies of dead teenagers, the battered and bloody police and troops, the wrecked aircraft, and the dead president on his face.

But, as Solo and Illya watched, the picture began to narrow its field, as though focusing on a single point.

"You will note the small group of police near the edge of the airfield," Mr. Waverly said.

The picture on the screen became a close-up of this group. Four policemen, bloody and holding their heads-and standing with them, helping one policeman, a single man wearing the uniform of a native soldier.

Solo and Illya stared hard at the hazy face in the blow-up. Waverly placed two prints of the blow-up on the circular table and revolved the top until the pictures were in front of the two agents.

"That face, gentlemen, belongs to Azid Ben Riilah, a Somali of Muslim parentage. He was born, supposedly, in Somaliland, but he has spent little time there. He appeared in Kenya during the Mau-Mau troubles. He was seen in both Stanleyville with the Gizenga rebels, and in Leopoldville with the other side in the Congo affair. He has been identified in Zulu peace parades in South Africa, also as a native informer for the Apartheid Government in the same country. In actuality he is an agent of THRUSH, uncovered only four months ago by Section-II men in Africa. There is absolutely no evidence of any action on his part that led to the mob that murdered the president down there. But he was there. You understand, gentlemen?"